John Casey, Serious As Cardio Myopathy
by Doc in Oz
Summary: The patient, John Casey, is male, aged in his late forties. Smoker. It was only a matter of time, really.
1. Chapter 1

**John Casey, Serious As Cardio-Myopathy.**

**Summary:** John Casey, patient is male, aged in his late forties. Smoker. It was only a matter of time, really.

-o0o-

As of 16 June I don't own the characters from the television show 'Chuck' et al.

This was written while I was a guest of the Royal North Shore hospital, cardiac ward (6-B). I was lucky, with almost no symptoms I went to my local doctor. I then spent the subsequent 13 (and counting) days and nights in hospital. Longer than when I was hatched. Um, Caesared. Whatever.

My dad tells of his first patient in his new practice. Called out to a farm some twenty miles out of town, he found his patient sitting in his shed, sucking on the oxy hose from the oxy/acetylene cutter, giving himself external cardiac massage. Well, trying to give himself external….

It turned out he wasn't having a heart attack. His name was Frank, and he and my dad became friends.

-o0o-

First off, let me make this absolutely crystal clear. This is all Walker and Bartowski's damned fault. If I'd been allowed to shoot him in the first place, back up on that rooftop, none of this would have happened.

_And_ I would have gotten my pancakes for breakfast.

The other thing, was almost amusing. No-one, absolutely _no-on_e, has used the phrase 'heart attack.' They have been, in fact, _extremely_ careful to _not_ use that phrase.

I'd been doing my job, defending the moron who couldn't stay in the car, and shooting bad guys who specialized in shooting morons who didn't listen to their handlers and decide for idiotic reason best know to themselves to get out of their nice, safe cars in the first place.

In other words, a normal mission. So it got a little hairy when Walker and I were down to our last magazines each. I shared a glance with Walker. We'd both been in this position before.

And then, there was no air.

I was lying on my side, and Bartowski was bumping his gums (loudly) about something. Third time I'd tried to inhale, and barely nothing. This might be serious…..

And then Bartowski took the .45 from my hands and started shooting at bad guys….. You'll notice I said 'at' bad guys. It did however allow Walker to actually _shoot_ baddies.

He actually looked like he knew what he was doing. I'll give him this, he knew where the bad guys were, and fired at them (all the time still screaming like a My Magic Pony that's just realized that collectables might not all be collectable). If it wasn't for the problem I had with breathing, this might have been one of my best memories. Of this hole, at least.

As Bartowski called an ambulance, and Walker had the clean-up crew on the other line, it was all I could do to just to lie there. It was like I'd just run a marathon, without the joy of actually having run a marathon.

We spent half an hour in triage, and then I got moved to emergency. Once they had me on oxygen, things were better. I could breath.

The doctor, seriously, everyone in scrubs at this point looked like they were eighteen or so. So the doctor or nurse kept asking me about pain. They didn't seem to understand I had no pain.

I got allocated a bed about three the next morning. I'd sent the moron and his doe eyed skirt home about midnight. I got wheeled into my new home some time around 0330, eighth floor, ward C for Charlie. A shared room, three other incumbents.

Naturally, my doctor turned out to be Devon 'Awesome' Woodcomb. Awesome. Terrific. A city, a major US city, the size of Los Angeles, and the gorran Bartowski clan just keeps cropping up. No wonder bad guys have no problems finding him here. All they have to do is stand still anywhere within the city limits, and some Bartowski cloneling pops by to offer them a flower and directions to the mother ship.

"Mister Casey? Everything alright? The monitor shows you in fibrillation," asked a nurse, as she and a friend then proceeded to give me a full ECG, not exactly waiting for my permission to go ahead.

The same thing had happened that afternoon just after I'd had a bowel movement. They plugged me back in and ECG'd me. Bottom line, and I have the medical proof, Bartowski affects me as much as I give a shi….. thinking about Bartowski can cause my heart rate to spike.

Gotta say this for an age of litigation. They tell you everything. So, while I hadn't had symptoms as such, obviously I'd had a heart problem for a bit. So, I had, from the top, an enlarged heart, which may have caused the partial kidney failure, leaking from, not one, but _both_ atrial (the ones at the top) valves, the combination of which almost certainly caused the rapid pulse – 160 per minute, okay I'll give that as fast – and then the crowning glory, atrial flutter. My atria were tap dancing, independently of each other by the way, to a different bagpipe player as the rest of my heart. Apparently this is a situation where atrial fibrillation is actually an improvement. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

That would be why, on Wednesday, I found four fresh faced, wholesome idiots who introduced them selves from the foot of my bed as medical students, and they'd been told I was 'interesting.'

Interesting. I'd spent my entire career avoiding 'interesting.' My first platoon sergeant once gave me excellent advise – that is kind of what platoon sergeants are for – 'never be first, never be last and _never_ volunteer.'

In other words, try to not be interesting.

So here I was, being found interesting by the next generation of doctors…. And if they can learn something from me as opposed to reading about it in a book…

They left me, chatting animatedly amongst themselves, making ess shaped wiggles with their hands and muttering the word 'Kentucky' excitedly. Maybe there was hope for the future, these idiots seemed pretty bright. For idiots.

Coincidentally, Wednesday was the day I got fed up with wearing a skirt. Hospital gowns probably have a use, but pajamas are better. At no point, I want to make this clear, at no point would my position be described as a 'hissy fit.'

Technically, as Walker points out, it's my own fault. And as pajamas are mainly worn by young children, the designs for larger sizes are, well the same. That and apparently I didn't tell the moron to **not** buy me Sponge Bob Square Pant pajamas.

Until this moment, I'd only vaguely had an idea who or what a Sponge Bob was. The evil bastard held them up, dancing back, out of reach. She was just as bad as he was…

They were enjoying this. Bastards.

At least I could walk like a man again. Even if Devon pointed out, "Nice Sponge Bob jamies there, John."

Because of alleged kidney damage, honestly, it looked and smelled normal, I was given diuretics to ease the function back to normal, and also remove the fluid on my lungs (yeah, forgot about that, that was the reason I had trouble breathing in the first place). So, I'm peeing like a fire-hose. Every half an hour or so, and off I trot again. So by Thursday, they give me a measuring cup, and ask me to keep score.

At least the iPhone that the moron insisted I get has a use now. The little on-screen note pages….. three thousand 'mils,' is that a lot? Feels like it is. Oh, look, the metric converter the phone has says that three thousand mils is… well, that just can't be right.

-o0o-

I'm not admitting I looked forward to Walker and the moron visiting me. But it would be wrong of me to say I wasn't worried about them turning up and I was out, having a procedure. The damn procedure was vaguely promised/threatened all day. So for the third day, my breakfast paid a visit before it was taken away. This time they did the same with lunch (lamb curry from memory – but memory of what I order and what does turn up don't always agree). So I was getting peckish by about four in the afternoon. By four thirty, I figured nothing was going to happen and I snuck down to the vending machines near the elevators. Choice between a Mars bar or a Coke. Coke won. I had literally taken a sip when they took me.

The next thing I know, Angela (bossy, part Asian – I'm guessing Pilipino – I like her) had me in my bed demanding I take my pants off, and then she and the transport nurse changed me into the gown. My opened Coke, corp ring and watch were left next to the DVD player Bartowski'd given me, paused on one of the cop shows he'd loaned me (it's okay, but the main players need to get their shit in order, and stop dancing around their feelings for each other)….

Anyway, I'm taken away with zero notice down to theatre, where Angela and I wait. And wait. And then I conform I am the one who signed the consent form, yes, my mother's maiden name was… and yes, I do have a mole the shape of Hugh Heffner on my….

And then I'm taken to a waiting room outside (I presume) the theatre. A spray of something nasty down my throat, and a drip. I'm not tired. I'm not tired at all. I'm not tired, this is interesting…. I'm just closing my eyes, but I'm not tire….

…d at all. See? I'm awake, I didn't sleep.

Why are they moving me?

They tell me that my heart is back in sinus rhythm, beating the way it was meant to. They tell me everything went fine. My throat hurts….

When I get back to the ward, Bartowski and Walker are waiting for me. I check my watch as I put it back on. It's almost seven pm.

"Did you pair wait three hours?"

"Yeah." Says Bartowski, as if I'd been stupid for asking.

I looked at the now room temperature Coke. My dinner had been delivered, about two hours ago. I lifted the plastic cover on the mains… Moroccan Beef. It looked like it would have been nice when it was warm.

While I'm sitting there after Angela pointedly reminds me while the morons, one armed one not, both dangerous, are sitting there that I cannot drink or eat anything for another forty five minutes.

Walker nods to Angela that the message has been received. After Angela moves on, Walker smiles at me, "Bossy. I like her."

Bartowski opens his mouth to agree or something, and then spots the way Walker is smiling at him. Good lad, he shuts his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

As of 28.07.12, I don't own any of the characters from the television show 'Chuck' et al.

The 'nun' joke comes from Blackadder Season 4.

My wife and I would like to thank all who have expressed their best wishes via this and other means.

And obviously, I would also like to thank all of the staff at the Royal North Shore hospital, without their help, this story would be different.

From the bottom of my heart (sorry, couldn't resist that), thank you.

**John Casey, Serious As Cardio-Myopathy.**

**Chapter 2**

In the end, I was in hospital for just shy of three weeks. On the Tuesday of that third week, I was given an angiogram. Fortunately for all concerned, they chose to go in via the wrist. As it was, I had a bald patch on one wrist for a long time.

From some of the horror stories, the alternative option can have consequences. One nurse, Kate, from _way_ down south by her accent (Takes-us, maybe?) talked as how her father had had three hernias from not staying still when he was supposed to after his angio. Stay still when told to, got it.

The angio proceedure was fascinating to watch. I was offered 'something to take the edge off' which was described as being like a half a glass of wine. I think they mixed up my dosage, or didn't notice my weight, 'cause I didn't feel no edges come off.

Not especially comfortable, but I've had worse. The feeling of the thing moving _inside_ my armpit was….. different. When they injected the dye, my heart on the x-ray screen lit up as the stuff was released. With each pulse, the dye moved and was diminished. Something you don't see every day.

Even I could see that the coronial arteries were fine, no blockages.

Wednesday was an MRI scan. Whoever wrote that scene in one of Bartowski's cartoons, _Incredibles, _or _Invincibles_ or something, had been for a ride in one of these. Anyway, that scene where the hero, Mister Incredible, that was it, was being ejected out of the flying manta ray, and they kept bouncing him to get him inside the circular hatch of the escape capsule? It was like that. Almost.

And it was only a tight fit because of all the crap they rested on my chest.

But inside, it was no more claustrophobic than SCUBA diving. And some recorded bimbo telling me to 'breath in, breath out, now hold it, and relax.' The process made me think about John Glenn and the rest, genuine heroes, and what was done to them, to be selected for the Mercury Project.

Compared to that, holding my breath the wrong way for fifteen seconds was a piece of cake.

One of the more fragrant tasks I was given was a twenty four hour urine collection. The drugs still had me peeing like a fire hose, so that container became my new best friend. And then something went wrong in the pathology lab, so that changed from twenty four into forty eight hours when they gave me a new bottle. Plus I still had to record totals. A bit of double handling there, since there was a measuring scale imprinted on the side of Yuri, my collection bottle. Yuri, get it?

After they zapped my heart back into normal rhythm, I really felt better. I was certainly the healthiest, youngest and fittest in my room. The guy diagonally from me, Charlie was in his late eighties. He had asbestosis from when he worked in the navy yards during the forties and fifties as an electrician.

He was due for a pace maker, but the bright young things from med school kept coming up to check out his asbestosis. I guess that's a disease that's not as common as it used to be, and think about _that_ for a moment…..

God love him, I hope I'm as good as he is at that age, he would bait the med students. He would earnestly look at them and tell them that he used to smoke. But that he gave it up when he was nineteen… most of them just blinked at that, not sure what to say.

Currently on my right was a retired nun. This room was supposed to be male only, but they needed the bed. They keep her curtain closed, most of the time. When she was brought in, her profile made me think she was Mayor O'Rielly. Except the liver cirrhosis ward that he opened and was named after him (since he was its first occupant) is on another floor.

During one of their visits, while we'd adjourned to the TV room so we could talk, Bartowski found out about the nun, his eyes lit up and he told us that Morgan's father was a nun.

She fell for it straight away. Cripes, I could see it coming, and I'm in hospital.

"Chuck, don't be silly. Morgan's dad can't be a nun."

"But Sarah, when we were in school, and the teacher would ask about his dad, he'd say….. nun…"

He was so proud of that.

After a moment, Walker asked me in a dangerously sweet voice, "John, do you mind if I borrow your dinner tray? I need to clobber someone with it."

The bed across from me was in high rotation. The most memorable incumbent was the one that absolutely pissed the tall blond nurse, Susan, off.

He was moved in sometime during the wee smalls, waking me up. And apparently he had a low threshold for pain. I listened to him get a catheter inserted.

I don't suppose I can pass judgment, not having had one, but three others, including the nun, in this room had had one at some stage had one in or out…. None of them made the sounds he did…. None of them had, in fact, made _any_ sound.

Afterwards he kept pressing the call bell, and since he'd evidently had some surgical procedure earlier, he couldn't be given much in the way of pain medication. And he had to wait another two hours before they could give him some more brand name ibuprofen. Within fifteen minutes, he was calling again.

I think she gave him the morphine out of sheer frustration. And he made a contented yummy sound as the dragon settled down. It made me wonder if he knew about morphine and how it felt…..

Really, he should learn to be careful about a peeved nurse armed with a syringe full of morphine…..

She was still pissed with him when the morning change over came, and she briefed the day staff.

-o0o-

I was released on Saturday night. The resident Devon had assigned to me had to change paperwork three times. So I spent from three in the afternoon until after five sitting in civilian clothes for a nice change, waiting. And waiting. Then they gave me a bunch of pill bottles, instructions and that was that.

I took a cab back to Echo Park.

When I got home, Bartowski's sister had made dinner for me. There was no way they would let me just go home. If this was a sample of what Walker had to put up with from Chuck and his family… She was stronger than everyone thought.

Everyone kept things simple. And made sure I went to bed early. After eating an Ellie meal, having existed on hospital rations for three weeks….. Let's agree that I was tired.

While I was better than I was, when I went in, Devon had told me I was a rare case, where atrial flutter was spontaneous.

Short answer was, he didn't know why I'd had a not-actually-a-heart-attack-but-pretty-darn-close-to-one.

But I still had to take it easy. In the hospital, I thought I was fine, and could walk to the TV room with no trouble. But life in the real world was different. Things were further away than the toilet or TV room. I was better than before, but I was nowhere near normal.

After Ellie's dinner, Walker took me back to my place. It took me longer than I expected to cross the courtyard.

I opened my own front door for the first time in close to a month. Walker came in with me, and turned some lights on for me. Then she stood there, trying to figure out how to say it.

So, I said it for her.

"You and Bartowski. I guess congratulations…..."

She looked at me, her mouth hung open for half a second, which in spy terms is like most of a day. "How did you…. It was an acciden….. John, please d….."

I grinned, "It's not like it was never going to happen." A little more seriously I added, "And the pair of you are good for each other."

She asked and then answered her own question, "How did….. _When_ did you know?" she finished in a resigned tone.

I really tried not to smile too smugly, "First week I was in hospital. Your body language to each other was screaming to anyone with eyes how….. relaxed…. you were with each other."

She didn't know what to say.

I said, "Let me guess, with me out of the picture and no observation on him, you were ordered to move in. I'm guessing you lasted…. what, two, three days?"

She nodded guiltily. Like a school kid caught skipping class, I thought.

"Bad?" I asked gently, suspecting I already knew the answer.

"Bad," she nodded again, now trying to outstare the carpet. "I love him. I love him like….. God, I sound like that stupid school girl vampire book." She looked straight at me, "Casey, I love him so much, it hurts. I always thought they made shit like that up, but…."

"Has it got in the way on missions?" I knew they'd had a couple of simple ones while I was holding a hospital bed down.

"Um, no….." she realized, and was puzzled over that now that she thought about it.

"Bartowski could give you the answer to that," she looked the question at me, so I explained it to her, "because in one way, nothing's really changed. You were in love before, only now you've actually done something about it."

"But I broke the cardinal rule."

I sighed, "Yeah, but it's a rule, that makes it more of a guideline than an actual law."

After a little while, she asked "What do I do about General Beckman?"

"You're gonna have to tell her at some stage. Sooner the better."

"….But….."

"Wa….Sarah, it's not like it's going to be a shock to her."

I sat on my couch, needing to sit more than I liked.

Walker repeated her, "…..But…" from earlier. I thought to myself, a bit more choke, and she might start. "….But what if they, she breaks us up? Forces us apart?"

Ah, there was the rub.

And it worried her, fairly naturally, I guess.

"I'm not saying Beckman's gonna _like_ it, but you need to tell her. You broke a _rule_ after all, and generals, generally speaking….." I liked that one, clever, I thought, "…..like rules. But she's also a spy, or she used to be. She might remember how this works. We're human. Spies have been known to fall in love, once in a while you know. Ever heard of Frost? Married the asset." I suggested, using the famous agent as an example. "And like I said, it's not like this is gonna be a horrible surprise for her."

She still looked worried. "Wal… Sarah, you have a chance. I don't know how long it'll last for, but a chance for something that doesn't happen to us, spies, very often. Take it."

"But he wants normal."

I half remembered some conversation that the pair had had, one that I forgot to transcribe, probably due to my nausea that the conversation gave me. "No he doesn't," I told her, "he wants you. So don't try to be normal. That's not who he fell in love with."

After she went back home, and it was genuinely home for her now, the general appeared on the video screen, "Welcome back, major."

"General…."

"Stay seat…. as you were…" she waived her hands at the camera, letting me remain seated. "I guess there'll be some changes to the missions for a while, we'll have to let _you_ stay in the car…"

She seemed to find that endlessly amusing, from her little smirk.

"Yes general. At least I'll know how to stay in the car."

"True. Has Walker told you? About herself and the….. Chuck?"

"I let her know I was aware of the situation, and that she needed to advise you, General."

She smiled benignly, which was something that was scarier than anything else I'd seen, "They think no-one can see it. Ah well, my analysts tell me this is a good thing, the earlier it happened the less likely she would have a psychotic episode later on. Very well, sorry to disturb you John, you have a quiet night, and we'll discuss your return to duties at a later date. Good night."

What the shazbot? Did the world take nice pills while I was away?

Speaking of pills, I'm on a whole bunch, most likely for the rest of my life. There's one, called Warfarin, that's taken to prevent clotting and 'thin the blood,' as it was explained to me. I rather felt that sounded a bit like rat poison and how it worked. An anticoagulant.

Bartowski took great pleasure after he looked it up on that phone he has surgically attached to his hand that that was how it began.

So, some doctor somewhere thirty or forty years ago, probably noticed that some husband poisoned by his wife with rat killer, got better instead of dying of the inevitable heart attack he should have had, had the wife waited long enough. Bet she was pissed when she found out….

Partway through the next week, I went back to work at the Buy More.

Stupid morons, applauding and lining up as I walked in the door.

God, I couldn't wait 'til I got to the indoor range over at Castle. I needed to shoot something. Maybe blow something up, too….

-o0o-


End file.
